


Wolves of Stone

by jalen_mara



Series: Birthright [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst, Crypt smut, F/M, Incest, R Plus L Equals J, Smut, The smut that was promised, post-reveal, season 8 speculative one shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-30
Updated: 2018-08-30
Packaged: 2019-07-04 13:48:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,480
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15842562
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jalen_mara/pseuds/jalen_mara
Summary: The broken sigh behind her had her turning to face him once more, her eyes eager to drink him in. The dark circles that had receded on their sea journey had returned, the bruise like shadows haunting him in the same way his brother’s words now haunted her. His normally straight shoulders were stooped, and he looked smaller without his wolf adorned gambeson, armor, and cloak. The flickering torchlight caught the anguish in his eyes, and Daenerys was forced to steel herself before she threw herself at him, longing to soothe and comfort the only way she knew how, with lips and tongue and body, with sweet words and light humor and a promise to avenge those that would harm him with fire and blood.





	Wolves of Stone

**Author's Note:**

  * For [notpmaHleM](https://archiveofourown.org/users/notpmaHleM/gifts).



> Happiest of Birthdays to the ever so lovely, patient, encouraging, talented, wonderful notpmaHleM!!! I'm so happy that we met, and I'm even happier it [was] your birthday! (At least I showed it to you on time!) This is for you <3
> 
> Takes place before the Wall falls, and is a weird mix of books and show. They melded into one in my brain a long time go.
> 
> Thanks to Tolkien for letting me borrow "bitter watches of the night"

~*~*~*~*~*~

She could not go to the Godswood - the gods of the North did not belong to her, and she would not dishonor them in such a way, even if she did believe in them. Besides, _he_ would be there. He had spoken fondly of the heated pools and the massive weirwood with its savage, carved face during their time together on her ship. A lifetime ago. She would not begrudge him of all that he held sacred.

Instead, she found her feet following a queer path-- one of sadness and death. The crypt seemed to materialize before her eyes, dank, and sour, and cool-- hidden under the ground where the Kings of Winter sat their thrones for all eternity.

Or until the dead came for them all.

Bran’s words rang cruelly in her mind.

_You are not the true Queen… Jon, you are the heir to the Iron Throne… Your dragon has been enslaved… They are coming…._

She had been roused from the warmth of her canopy, content with the fire, and furs, and him. If Lady Stark had been surprised when she found them abed together, she had not let on. Her eyes held the same trepidation, the same exhaustion that Daenerys felt within the confines of her own soul. “Our brother would like a word,” she had said to Jon, offering no explanation, no excuses, the silences and bitter watches of the night the only witness to their hurried shuffle as her dreams turned to terrors of the night.

She was no longer alone. No longer the last.

In those first wonderful moments she had felt light, weightless, as if all her burdens had been lifted from her weary shoulders. She may have gasped-- his sisters certainly had, but for one singular moment, nothing was insurmountable with him by her side. Blood of her blood, in reality as well as truth. She had turned to him, eager to sup from the joy in his eyes and his lips, but he had turned from her, his eyes normally so warm and inviting, shuttered, casting her out of his protection, throwing her to the wolves that lay on every side.

She felt as if she had inhaled ice crystals, her blood running colder and colder with each breath, with each passing phrase of doom that fell from Bran’s chapped lips. His eyes were blank and damning, all seeing, all knowing, and uncaring of the swath of destruction left in his wake. She had shivered in the solar, the wind howling its dissent, echoing the despairing cries of her soul.

Another Dance of Dragons-- her love, her family, her birthright, her claim. Shame spiraled through her for even allowing these brittle thoughts. Jon would never push his own claim over hers, for her Warden of the North was cut from a more honorable cloth than most. She knew better, knew the man that stood alongside her to be much more careful and honest than that which she wished to credit him.

He was a Stark, through and through. His honor had been heeled and honed at the knee of Ned Stark, and even if he had not been of Lyanna’s blood, it would have made little to no difference. He was of the North. It was etched upon his soul, and no amount of time spent in her realm of fire could thin his blood of those qualities, even if she had set out to try.

Lyanna’s sculpted face swam before her eyes. She had been beautiful, the Wolf Maid-- fierce and wild and stubborn, just like her son. Just like Daenerys’ sons, one of which lay enslaved and captured beyond the wall. A wail of grief rose within her mother’s heart, lamenting her lost son, for she had doomed him-- doomed them all. Their folly was complete. They had underestimated their enemy in every way, and now they would all pay the price for their arrogance, for their pride.

For her pride.

She should have listened to him, she should have buried herself in his head and arms and heart far sooner than she had allowed herself. She should have listened and believed and marched away with him as soon as he asked her, for then they would have been able to weather this news together, and no amount of greensight or prophecy could have torn them asunder.

It was quiet in the crypt. An occasional trickle of water echoed through the chambers, the whistle of the wind among the dead kings, the flicker of the flames. The shadows danced across her face-- the face that had launched a rebellion. The stone sepulcher seemed sad somehow, her lips turned up in a small smile, but the blank eyes shouted, nay, screamed into the dull and black void.

Lyanna.

Daenerys wanted to see the face of the woman who had captured her brother’s heart, driven him to make an impossible choice that had brought and end for their family. Including ever knowing the man his youngest son would grow to become. She wanted to look upon the face of the woman who had not been too late, to gaze upon Rheagar’s winter rose, and to see the eyes of her beloved, the hidden dragon in a wolf’s pelt.

The North was hard and cold, and had no room for mercy.

All of her advisors had warned of this. She had known it on the surface of her heart, but until Jon had turned away from her, his face hardened into lines of shock and disgust, she had never fathomed it to be true. Not from him, never from him.

The flame guttered in the torch as the breeze shifted, and Daenerys pulled the collar of her fur coat higher around her neck, wishing that she had had the foresight to take the sealskin gloves from her bedside table. Instead, in their haste, they had dressed as quickly and as thoroughly as decorum and speed would allow. Jon had pulled on breeches and a loose shirt, and she had refused to call Missandei to help her dress, instead pulling a silken shift over her head, and reaching for the coat that had seen her successfully north of the Wall and beyond.

He was here, watching her.

She straightened her spine, feeling his eyes burning a sear across her exposed skin, the bitter cold of the wind cutting through the furs, desperately trying to steal what little of her warmth she had managed to hoard for herself. She had been a fool to think he would have gone to the Godswood. Why would he take his reservations and fears and rage to the very gods that had hidden him from the world, to the memory of a false father that lied to him and for him at every turn.

Someday he would see the good of that lie, the grace and mercy it had afforded, but that day would not arise for some time. Perhaps never. The Long Night was upon them, and might snuff out the coming dawn.

Perhaps she had come here to that end, knowing somewhere deep down in the more conniving parts of her soul, the pieces of her that longed for a family no matter the cost, that he would be drawn to her. Perhaps it was not Lyanna that beckoned her here, but Lyanna’s son, bound by the same inevitable, voracious need-- the need to love, to belong, to _matter_.

She longed to gaze upon his face, to make a silent study of the veiled stone before her and compare it to the flesh and blood that comprised Jon Snow. Her brother’s son, her nephew, the last of the Targaryen’s.

A soft clatter of cascading pebbles at the steps of the crypt drew her attention, Jon finally wishing to make his presence known to her. She kept her gaze upon Lyanna’s face, only starting slightly when Ghost pushed his cold nose into the palm of her hand. She gasped and looked down at the beast, so silent, graceful, and deadly.

Ghost’s red eyes gleamed in the firelight, soft despite the obvious tension running through his lithe, lupine body. The same tension that thrummed through his chosen master, pulling him taut like a bowstring.

They were both silent, the man and the wolf melding in her mind as Jon moved toward her, taking his position at her side, flanking her along with Ghost.

“What are you doing here?” His voice was quiet, pained, but unwavering despite the grievous news. She doubted her voice would be as steady should she try to chance pushing words through her locked throat. Formalities were to be foregone she saw, and again Dany felt her spiral of deep shame as her thoughts naturally turned to the possibility of his betrayal. It was so simple to reach out and brush against the thought as if it were an old and dear friend.

_...three treasons will you know… once for blood and once for gold and once for love…_

Once for love.

Daenerys closed her eyes against the sudden tears that gathered, folding her hands in front of her, steeling herself for the impossibility that was yet to come.

“You’re not a Stark.” She could hear the threat behind the words, the anger in the implication-- as if she had somehow known. Outsider, interloper, what she had been her entire life-- a Princess turned Queen in exile.

“You used to say you were not either.” She breathed, her chest constricting against his accusation.

They had arrived in Winterfell not but hours before, their host exhausted and famished after the long march along the Kingsroad. She had offered to fly them both to the gates of Winterfell on dragonback, but he had refused. _A true lord leads from the front._ She wondered if the great and honorable Eddard Stark had lodged that idea firmly within his rigid mind as well.

He ducked his head, his curls haphazardly pulled back from the angular planes of his stern face. “Aye.” The whisper broke, tumbling down into the cracks of the stone, settling with the weight of all their secrets.

Daenerys reached for his hand, her soft, small fingers gripping his long calloused ones for the span of a moment, until he jerked away as if burned. “Don’t,” he said roughly, folding his arms across the expanse of his chest, burying his fingers in his armpits to keep them from chasing their own rampant desires.

She swallowed tightly, tamping down the flare of her temper, knowing that he was not himself in this moment of grief, of surprise, of tumult. “I’ll leave you to pay your respects then, my Lord.” She fought for the courtesies, forcing them past numb lips, a weakened tongue, silently begging him to stop her, to return to her.

Instead, she turned, pulling her collar tightly against her throat as she made her way for the stairs, only to be brought up short as Ghost put himself between her and the archway, his silent form and crimson eyes causing her to shiver in the growing darkness. “My Lord?” she hated the waver in her voice, the weakness dripping from it, lessening her.

“Ghost, to me.” His voice was weary and rough, and she could feel his eyes on her again as she kept her head up, and her spine straight, allowing him only the glimpse of her profile hiding within her unbound hair.

Ghost sat stubbornly in the archway, the direwolf’s head almost even to her own. “Ghost!” More frustration seeped into Jon’s voice, the rage taking a firmer root as the wolf stared at him balefully, refusing to move.

“Is there something you wish to say to me, my Lord? Your wolf seems to think it so.” It hurt to look anywhere but him, to be so formal with the man she had taken into her bed, into her heart, into the other half of her soul.

The broken sigh behind her had her turning to face him once more, her eyes eager to drink him in. The dark circles that had receded on their sea journey had returned, the bruise like shadows haunting him in the same way his brother’s words now haunted her. His normally straight shoulders were stooped, and he looked smaller without his wolf adorned gambeson, armor, and cloak. The flickering torchlight caught the anguish in his eyes, and Daenerys was forced to steel herself before she threw herself at him, longing to soothe and comfort the only way she knew how, with lips and tongue and body, with sweet words and light humor and a promise to avenge those that would harm him with fire and blood.

 _You’ll just be more of the same…_ His words from the beach rang viciously in her mind. She wanted to be different, to break the wheel, and destroy all that held her and her people lashed unmercifully to it-- but for her heart and the song of vengeance singing in her blood. For Jon’s lost childhood, for his mother, for her brother, for her son.

Jon wanted her to be different, but how could she be extraordinary if she didn’t embrace who she was-- who they were, who they were _meant_ to be?

“Don’t you have something you wish to say to me?” His biting words cracked across her, pulling her up short, the heat of his anger washing over her. “You said not a word to Bran after the--” He choked, unable to put his horror into words.

“What was there left to say?” She folded her arms over her middle, the cold seeping into her bones. “You stormed from the room as soon as you could, and you have yet to look me in the eye.”

His eyes snapped up to her own at that, accusing, disappointed, lost. The color had seeped out of them, all warmth fled as if the inky blackness of his despair had leached whatever life and color he had left within him. “Does this please you better, Your Grace?” He snarled, pacing a worn path in front of his mother’s image, and Daenerys drew herself up to her full height, taking a single step towards him.

“Little and less please me tonight.” She said, fighting to keep her own accusations from her tone, striving to keep the Queen’s mask in place, lest he see how quickly he could flay her to the bone. Her grief was a living, shifting shrike, the barbs of it cutting and poisoning her as surely as if she had taken a dose of nightshade.

The bowstring snapped, and Jon was upon her within the length of a breath, the hardened planes of his chest driving her back against the stone wall. His hands, hot and wanting grappled at the waist of her white fur coat, the catches flying open as he jerked upwards, his lips normally so soft and gentle nipping at her throat. She gasped as his teeth found her pulse, and her own hands set to work, wasting no precious time as she fumbled for the ties at his waist.

Her coat fell open, and already she could feel herself responding to the heat of him, despite the fact that they had found their pleasure in each other before retiring for the night. She could feel herself kindling, her nipples already hardened peaks beneath the thin silk of her shift, her thighs pressed together desperately to keep her arousal from making a puddle beneath her on the uneven ground.

His hands went to her breasts, kneading them through her shift as he nipped his way from the sloped column of her throat to her full and waiting lips, her tongue ready to soothe and lick the wounds and hurts of the day. His beard rasped against her face as his lips found her own, and she bit back a groan of desire as his talented mouth inflamed her from the inside out.

The ties of his breeches finally gave way, and she reached for the hot, hard length of him, the weight and fullness of his cock filling her hand as she stroked him root to tip. Jon moaned into her mouth as she continued, his own need and frenzy building within him as his hands abandoned her breasts and settled on the collar of her shift. His fisted the delicate fabric within his hands, and with an abrupt tug the silk gave way, tearing jaggedly from throat to navel.

Her breasts fell into his open palms as the silk fell away, his rough and calloused fingers feathering across her nipples, and she shivered as his mouth fell to her other breast, laving her with his tongue until she was breathless and writhing beneath him. She gave him a squeeze in warning, and he responded by laying his teeth to her breast, adding pressure until she gasped at the spark of pain.

The hour of the wolf was upon them in more ways than one, his cock rigid in her hand as his fingers drifted lower across her belly and hips reaching for the aching, wet center of her. Finally, he caught the nub between his forefinger and thumb, squeezing gently as she shuddered in his arms, her hands tightening around the length of him as first one finger, then a second pushed into her, her silken walls tightening around him, desperately trying to keep him here with her for always.

Her lips found their way to his neck, suckling and bruising, eager to leave her mark on him any way that she could, wanting to remember these moments for as long as she could, hoping that this was not a goodbye, but knowing in the depths of her soul that this could not be for eternity.

She was dripping all over his fingers and the palm of his hand as he cupped her, teasing her until she felt strung out and unsteady. His hands tried to turn her, the subtle shifting of them at her waist and hips until she refused, unwilling to turn from him, needing to see his face, his eyes for as long as he would allow. Finally, he took himself in hand and rubbed the swollen head of his length against her slit. It was almost too much as his other hand grasped her thigh, lifting her leg to his hip as he entered her with one long stroke.

Her breath caught in her throat at the feel of him filling her to the hilt, his arms creeping around her waist and hoisting her leg higher still, his hips driving her into the rough wall with a small cry. Her hands threaded through the curls of his hair, her hungry mouth devouring his own, swallowing his moans, his sighs, his grunts, feasting upon the sounds of his pleasure.

His eyes were still an inky black, but the ferocity with which he looked at her stopped the beating of her heart for a moment, the desperation in which he held her, and she him frightening her more than the sight of the wights had done. His speed increased, his cock surging in and out of her at a bone crushing pace, her own breathing becoming ragged as he strung her along.

He released her leg, his nimble fingers reaching for her nub, catching it within his forefinger and thumb with a twist and she unraveled around him, her body jerking and twitching as if possessed by the very spirits the crypt housed. His hips bucked into her once, twice more before he found his own crisis, his voice a strangled garble in the growing dark as the torches sputtered.

He kept his face buried in her neck, clutching her to him as if letting go would bring about Death himself. She clung to him as well, her arms wrapped around his solid shoulders, silent tears falling down her face at the betrayal to come.

_Once for love…_

All too soon Jon released her, stepping back, his now limp cock slipping out of her with a wet squelch. He ducked his head, unable to meet her eyes as he tucked himself away, leaving her ravished and vulnerable and bare. He pulled away, his shame obvious and complete. A quick half bow, and he snapped for Ghost, the wolf heeling immediately. “Your Grace.”

She did not bother to cover herself, the only thoughts in her mind that of keeping him here with her, to speak to her using words not bodies, to assure him that she still felt the same for him, that she would stand by her vow to destroy the Night King, together-- but as she took a step toward him, Ghost wheeled on his haunches, his hackles raised and teeth bared to her.

It was then that Daenerys knew she was truly alone.

~*~*~*~*~*~

**Author's Note:**

> This smut is my last act of defiance before I leave my job (today's my last day!!!), and have to turn in the work laptop (which all of Snowstorm, and pieces of Birthright have been written on-- I'm going to miss this little guy!) Then, I leave on my honeymoon tomorrow night, so please know that if you leave a comment after 7pm EST, Friday, Aug 31, I will be on holiday and will thank you properly and effusively when I get back in a few weeks.
> 
> Also, this is not done! Consider this the opening volley to my next major project-- a speculative season 8 canon piece called 'Birthright'-- if you'd like a sneak peek at what lies in wait for you there, please click on my user name, and look for my drabble 'Just Once'.
> 
> Also also, feel free to stop by and say hey on tumblr as well! I can be found @jalenmara.
> 
> Thank you so much for reading! <3


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